


the wind and I, we speak the same

by lastwingedthing



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/F, Fix It, Red wedding is averted AU, crossover AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:40:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26175130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lastwingedthing/pseuds/lastwingedthing
Summary: Trapped in the Red Keep for months, Sansa had almost lost her hope completely. But everything changed when she met Katara.
Relationships: Katara/Sansa Stark
Comments: 19
Kudos: 94
Collections: Alternate Universe Exchange 2020





	the wind and I, we speak the same

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ashling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashling/gifts).



Sansa didn’t feel safe in the godswood of the Red Keep. Nowhere was safe for a Stark in King’s Landing, and she was still a Stark, even if the Lannisters were trying their best to make her forget it.

And she didn’t go to the godswood because she thought the old gods might protect her – why would they, when they hadn’t saved her father? – or even because the godswood reminded her of home. The trees were too luxuriantly green, the flowers too bright, the air too warm for that. There were no weirwood trees this far south.

It was quiet in the godswood, though. Quieter than anywhere else in the keep. The gardens were crowded, but almost no one else ever went into the overgrown tangles of the wood, sloping down towards the walled quarter where servants washed clothes in the sun and grew tender fresh vegetables for the king’s table out of sight of any nobility. When Sansa went there, there was no one to look at her, or talk about her in low whispers behind her back.

Even Margaery’s ladies did that sometimes, and Margaery, Sansa thought, was kind. Margaery knew the truth about Joffrey now, but Sansa was still frightened for her, wished that Margaery would give up on the betrothal with Joffrey and leave King’s Landing for good.

But Sansa couldn’t do anything more to help Margaery. So she went into the godswood instead, and dreamed.

It was easy to stay too long, though. One afternoon she opened her eyes from a slow sweet dream of home to find that it was sunset; red light was already slanting through the trees.

She ought to go, she thought, heart thudding in sudden fear. If she stayed out in the gardens until dark the king would send men looking for her, and that would be… that would be bad. And the gardens weren’t safe for any lady in the dark, not really.

She ought to go… but she didn’t want to. Couldn’t. Sansa didn’t move. Her breath was coming fast, her eyes tight and sore with tears. _Lady… Father…_

_Help me…_

A breath of evening breeze lifted the leaves in the trees above her, sent them whispering and skittering against each other, and for a moment Sansa could almost believe it was voices, her kin coming for her at last.

But she knew it was the wind, really, all along. And when she opened her eyes again she was alone.

Angrily she brushed at her eyes, swallowing down the lump in her throat.

Of course she was all alone! She was just a silly little girl – a girl who thought honourable Lord Stannis would defeat the Lannisters to take King’s Landing and send her home to her brother – a silly girl who thought that a broken betrothal would keep her safe from Joffrey –

She knew she had to go. Or Joffrey would become _really_ angry.

Slowly she stood up, gathering her heavy skirts around her. Then she paused.

A shaft of light running through the trees had fallen exactly on the trunk of the massive, ancient oak at the centre of the godswood, lighting it up. It was almost lovely, how the light turned the worn greyish bark to red gold – except by some trick of sunset, in one spot just at the level of Sansa’s shoulders where the sunbeam touched the tree, the light looked _blue_.

Sansa had to investigate, she couldn’t help herself. The blue patch of light shimmered almost like water – like the deep warm pools at the foot of the weirwood tree in Winterfell –

When she touched the light it rippled over her hands. She could almost feel it, soft and gentle as a breeze against her skin.

Sansa reached deeper into the light. It covered her hands until she couldn’t see them at all, but when she got frightened and pulled her hands free, outside they looked just the same. So she reached out and touched the light again.

She should have felt rough tree bark under her fingers after only a moment or two, but somehow Sansa couldn’t reach the old oak. Deeper… deeper… she was leaning into the light now, in it up to her shoulders, but somehow her hands were groping around in an empty void.

She wondered if she’d have the courage to walk into the light… but as soon as she thought that her stomach tightened in sudden fear. _That would be a bad idea_ , she thought, not knowing why; but she’d learned to trust her instincts, these days.

Reluctantly, she started to pull her hands back from the light, already missing its gentle warm touch against her skin.

Then something within the light – touched _her_.

It was a hand – a hand, touching hers –

Sansa almost screamed.

But somehow the hand wasn’t as scary as it ought to have been. It wasn’t damp and horrible, like Joffrey’s hands always were, or rough and cruel, like the hands of the Kingsguard who hurt her. It wasn’t soft and smooth either – it wasn’t a lady’s hand – but its grip seemed friendly and almost pleading, somehow. Like the person it belonged to wanted, _needed_ something from Sansa…

Without stopping to think what she was doing, Sansa gripped that hand in her own and _pulled_.

For a moment she felt nothing. Then there was a sense of weight against her arm, a tension, as if there was another person behind the blue light and Sansa was pulling them forward to join her.

She tugged harder – leaned in closer with her other hand – now two hands were squeezing tight around her own, and the pulling was easier.

With a sudden release of tension, Sansa tumbled backwards into the grass – and a strange girl, pulled somehow from the light and the tree, tumbled after her.

For a moment Sansa could only lie back, panting in shock. But finally she found her courage, and turned her head to look.

The strange girl was lying on her back beside Sansa, stretched out in an undignified sprawl across the lush grass. At first all Sansa could see of her was a cloud of hair, thick dark curls spilling down her shoulders.

Then the girl turned her head to meet Sansa’s eyes. Her own eyes were brilliant blue.

The girl wasn’t much older than Sansa, dark like some of the court ladies from Essos, and she was _beautiful_ – prettier even than the Queen, Sansa thought. And she was smiling like the Queen never would, friendly and warm.

“Thank you!” The girl’s accent was strange, but the words were clear enough. “You saved me! I thought I’d be stuck in the Spirit World forever – or at least until Aang found me. It would have been so embarrassing to have to wait for the Avatar to rescue me!”

“Spirit… World?” Sansa asked slowly. Of course this strange girl was magic. Of course she was. Sansa had pulled her out of a _tree_. But she looked so ordinary and friendly, with a smudge of dirt from their fall on her cheek and blue ribbons twisted through her hair.

And the blue light on the tree was gone. Sansa could almost believe it had never happened – except the strange girl was still there.

Lithely the girl twisted and sat up, squatting on the ground like a peasant. Mimicking her, embarrassed to be sprawled across the ground, Sansa sat up too, sitting neatly crosslegged with her hands resting on her knees.

“Yep, I got myself stuck in the Spirit World,” the girl said, quirking up the corner of her mouth in an embarrassed smile. “There was a problem on Kyoshi Island, and I really should have waited for Aang, but I thought maybe an ocean spirit would listen to me. Turns out, not so much!”

Her grin brightened as she looked around. “Where are we? This doesn’t look like Kyoshi Island anymore.”

“I don’t know where that is,” Sansa said cautiously. “We are in the Godswood of the Red Keep. In King’s Landing.” The girl looked blank. “The capital of Westeros, the Seven Kingdoms? You speak our tongue, surely you have heard of this land!”

The girl shrugged. “You do sound a bit strange – it might just be the Spirit World letting me understand you. Sorry. I don’t know any of those names. Are you Earth Kingdom here? Or Fire Nation? Another Water Tribe?”

Sansa frowned at the unfamiliar names. “None of those. I am – ” Her throat closed, suddenly; her voice came out hoarse and rasping. “I am of the North. Of Winterfell.”

She and the girl stared at each other for a long time.

“I guess I’m further away from home than I thought,” the girl said at last, looking suddenly sadder and more serious.

Without thinking Sansa reached out and touched the back of her hand, laying her hand over the girl’s own. Her skin felt soft and warm.

The girl smiled. Then she looked up, fixed those brilliant blue eyes on Sansa.

“My name is Katara, Master Waterbender of the Southern Water Tribe.” She bent her head in a bow, suddenly almost formal. “Thank you for saving me.”

“I am Sansa Stark,” she said, bowing her head in return. It felt good to say her name, her real name, and not see any sign of scorn or fear in the other girl’s face. “And you are welcome. Though I fear I have not served you well, to bring you here. This is not… it is not a safe place.”

The girl – Katara – suddenly leaned forward, frowning. “Are you alright? Are you in danger here?”

Sansa swallowed around another lump in her throat. “I am – I am well enough. It could be worse, truly. But you should be careful.”

Katara grinned, a sudden bright slant of her mouth, showing white teeth. “I can take care of myself.”

Sansa bit her lip, the girl’s cocky self-assurance reminding her for a moment of her sister. Wild wolf’s-blood Arya… she was almost certainly long dead, and this echo of her _hurt_.

“I am sure you are very brave,” Sansa said, once her voice was back under control. “But the King is – you must be careful. Ships from every port in the world come to King’s Landing, they say. Surely there are some from your homeland! But I don’t know how you’ll be able to get past the guards to leave the Keep and get to the harbour. Maybe – maybe I can find someone else to help you?”

Katara shrugged again, smile bright. “Why don’t I find out more about this place, first? There must be a library here – will they have maps, do you think? I wouldn’t like to try and find my way home without one.”

She wasn’t taking this seriously. Sansa felt her heart sink.

“Katara – you can’t just wander through the Red Keep looking for maps,” Sansa said urgently. “You _can’t_. I’m – I’m traitor’s blood. I can’t help you. And the men here… they’re not kind to strangers. They’ll think you’re a spy!”

Katara leaned forward, eyes suddenly wide with concern. “Why are you here, then? If this place is so unkind, why don’t you come with me?”

“I can’t!” The words burst out of her. “I wish – but I cannot put you in danger. I am a prisoner here, but it’s alright. The Tyrells said they will help me… they might even take you, if I said you were my maid, but I don’t know how you will be able to hide…”

Katara grinned, sitting back on her heels. “You said it – I’ll pretend to be a maid! That’s a great excuse for why I’d be sneaking around. Don’t worry about me, I disguised myself in the Fire Nation for months. I’m _very_ good at hiding.”

Katara was _not_ good at hiding. She was the worst excuse for a maid Sansa had ever seen – much, _much_ worse than Shae, who if she wasn’t a Lannister spy like Sansa had originally thought, still couldn’t possibly have ever worked as a maid before she’d been tasked to work for Sansa.

But Shae, at least, understood how to show respect to the highborn, and how to keep her head down. Katara’s attempts would have been funny if Sansa hadn’t been so frightened for her.

Except – Katara was also right, in a way. On Sansa’s advice, she’d stolen a maid’s dress and cloak from the servants’ grounds, and once she’d exchanged them for her odd blue clothes it was like she’d become invisible.

Even though Katara lifted her head to look directly at the nobility, and smiled too often and too widely, and sometimes ran instead of keeping to a meek decorous walk, no one seemed to notice, or to care.

Sometimes, it was true, noblemen and guards tried to grab at her, the same way they grabbed at any young and pretty woman. But somehow Katara was never quite in reach, always managing to twist and dart out of their way without ever looking like she was doing it.

 _I’ll have to tell Margaery_ , Sansa thought to herself, a small cold pit in her stomach. _I’ll have to ask her if the Tyrells can bring Katara with me, when we go to the Reach. Maybe even Shae too_.

Even if Shae was a spy, Sansa didn’t think she was working for the Lannisters anymore. She was odd, but kind, and Sansa didn’t want her getting blamed if Sansa disappeared.

But first the Tyrells had to get them out…

As the days passed, the knot in Sansa’s stomach grew tighter and tighter, until it was difficult to eat or sleep or do anything but pace and kneel in the godswood. It had been like this in the days when Stannis Baratheon’s fleet approached the city – the more Sansa hoped, the more she feared. Stannis was an honourable man, everyone said, surely he would have sent her back to her brother… she’d dreamed of it, _prayed_ for it. But in the end Stannis had failed.

Now her only hope was the Tyrells… or Lord Baelish, but she did not trust him.

Her heart hammered with fear for Katara, for herself. She would not be able to bear it, if she’d saved Katara from one danger only to bring her into worse trouble in the Red Keep.

But in the end it was Katara who brought punishment crashing down on them, and Katara who saved them both. Not Lord Baelish, or the Tyrells.

Sansa had been in the gardens again, walking slowly down a fountain-lined avenue with Katara walking, for once, behind her in the proper position for a maid. They were going to the godswood, where they could talk freely.

Only then Sansa had rounded the corner of a steep green hedge and come abruptly face to face with Joffrey.

He smiled when he saw her. That wide mad smile.

The world went taut and bright and cold. Icy. Like summer snow.

Demurely, carefully, she dipped into a deep curtsey. “My king,” she murmured, eyes fixed on the path before her. The bricks there were a cheery orange-red, set into a neat pattern of squares, and she counted them row by row to calm her trembling.

“Poor Sansa,” he said, jeering. “You thought you were going to be a Queen, and now look at you! You miss me, don’t you?”

Sansa kept her eyes low. “I am grateful my lord King has made such a splendid match, as befits his noble grace.”

“ _You_ did not befit me! You’re stupid, but even you aren’t stupid enough not to realise that.” He reached out suddenly, gripped her arm with fingers that dug in so sharply Sansa couldn’t help but gasp aloud.

His smile widened –

“Let go of her,” a voice said, crisply.

Sansa could have fallen, for a moment. _No_ , she thought despairingly. Don’t get his attention!

But it was too late. Katara had spoken, and now Joffrey was staring at her, all sneering disdain.

“Who is this whore servant who thinks she can talk to a king?” He turned to the guard beside him, laughing. _No_. “Have her stripped and beaten.”

The world was bleached and white and awful. Helpless, knowing it would gain nothing, Sansa fell to her knees.

“Please, my king, I beg you,” she said, letting her eyes widen and swim with tears, the way Joffrey liked. “Mercy…”

Joffrey looked down at Sansa’s face, and his smile widened.

“Why should I? Maybe I’ll take her head, afterwards. Maybe I’ll make you watch.” He jerked his head imperiously at the guards. “Well? Take her.”

“I don’t think so.” Katara’s voice was cold as ice.

 _Please don’t make me watch this,_ Sansa thought, despairing. One of the guards drew his sword –

There was something wrong with the nearest fountain. A jet of water had suddenly sprayed towards them. Except it shouldn’t have been able to reach this far.

Sansa half-fell in surprise as the fine spray of water touched her, turned.

Saw Katara with a shining silver whip in her hand. Only it wasn’t a whip, it was _water_. Water that spun and cracked with force enough to send the guards’ weapons flying, that drove them back and sent them to the ground in a jangling clash of armour.

Joffrey was staring too, eyes huge with sudden fear. Water touched him, touched his hands – only it was _ice_ , suddenly. Frozen solid on a summer’s day.

Joffrey’s hands were bound together before him in manacles of ice. Unbalanced, he stumbled and fell, wailing as he smacked against the hard ground.

“I’ve had enough of this place,” Katara said, contemptuously. “I don’t know why I stayed. Shall we leave, Sansa?”

Magic, real magic – Sansa’s eyes were as wide as Joffrey’s, but in awe, not fear.

“Yes,” she breathed. Suddenly hopeful, for the first time in years.

They ran together towards the end of the gardens, away from the keep. Sansa followed Katara without a word, trusting now in her miracles.

Sansa could see the harbour now, in gaps between the trees. Maybe Katara had a boat for them, waiting – maybe Katara could fly them down the cliffs to reach it –

“Ooops,” said Katara, coming to a sudden halt. Heavily armoured guards were pounding through the trees to cut them off.

Sansa looked around wildly. There were no fountains here. But maybe Katara would send stones against the soldiers, or the air itself?

“I wish I’d found a new waterskin – sorry, trees,” Katara said, as she twisted her hands. Sansa could watch her properly this time, could see her moving in a slow graceful dance that made Sansa’s blood pound to watch.

Then Sansa gasped. Another ribbon of water was streaming into Katara’s hands – except this one was coming from the trees themselves, and their leaves crumpled into dry paper behind it.

Katara had two whips this time, one for each hand. They sent the guards skittering to the ground on either side, bumping and clashing together in a foolish tangle. Then water sprayed among them and froze, sticking them to the ground at awkward angles. Some of the men began to shout and weep as their frozen armour burned their skin, but Sansa knew that in this hot weather it would melt before it could do them real harm.

Katara reached out and gripped Sansa’s hand. “Come on!”

Sansa ran with her, half-laughing in sheer relief – then recognised one of the men on the ground. All her laughter stopped.

“That’s Illyn Payne,” Sansa breathed out, suddenly shaking with the memory. “He killed my father when Joffrey ordered it. _He killed him with his own sword._ ”

That was Ice there right in front of her, where it had fallen from the guardsman’s hand. Her father’s sword.

Without really thinking what she was doing, Sansa leaned down and picked it up.

It was long – as tall as Sansa herself – and unwieldy, but not quite as heavy as she’d expected. _Valyrian steel_. She could lift it with both hands.

The men around them were moving, now. The ice was melting. And Sansa couldn’t run anymore. She could only walk, quickly and carefully, focusing all her attention on keeping the sword balanced in her hands –

And then finally she stopped. They were at the courtyard at the end of the gardens, looking down at the harbour far below. Sansa could see fishermen’s boats bobbing, the little pier where she and Shae played the ship game. _Shae_. She hoped her maid would be alright, that the Lannisters wouldn’t blame her when Sansa disappeared – that she’d run in time. Shae was so clever. Surely she’d know to run.

Katara looked at her, mischief suddenly in her eyes. “Are you ready? Do you trust me?”

Mutely, Sansa nodded. She’d come far too far now to turn back.

Katara smiled and raised her hands.

And then the wave came. Big enough to blot out the sun. But there was a piece of ice floating on it – a piece of ice like a little boat –

Regally, Sansa stepped onto the ice, onto freedom. And the wave swept them away.

It seemed a dream, after that. Sansa could not stop smiling. The wave took them out into the open harbour, and Katara sent them dodging and darting between the ships there until she found one she liked enough to steal – Lord Buckwell’s pleasure yacht, all polished wood and carven antlers – from where it was anchored in the bay.

“Better to steal from a rich man than a poor one,” Katara said, cheerfully. “More comfortable too.”

The boat was well-loaded with food, soft wool blankets for beds, even a crate of golden lemons to freshen the musty drinking water. Sansa smiled and smiled.

“Which way?” Katara asked Sansa, carefully winding up a rope that dangled off the back of the boat – the anchor, probably, but Sansa didn’t really know. She’d never had to learn about boats in Winterfell.

Katara was having Sansa pull on ropes too, helping her unfurl the sails. Sansa had no idea what she was doing, but Katara seemed confident, exclaiming happily over the arrangement of the rigging.

Sansa blinked. “North! Can – how far can this boat sail?”

Katara grinned happily. “Weeks, I think. We have food enough for it. And it’s small enough for me to handle, if you help me.”

Sansa nodded seriously, thinking back to the maps she’d studied with Arya and their brothers in Winterfell. They could sail to the Vale, to Sansa’s aunt, or even all the way to the Manderlys of White Harbor; they would be the most sensible places to go.

But something in Sansa’s heart pounded a rebellious no. She wanted her brother. She wanted her _mother_.

“We should sail to the Trident,” Sansa said, more confidently than she felt, as she tried to remember the old Crownlands map from her lessons as a child. “We need to sail northeast to leave Blackwater Bay, first. Then round Crackclaw Point to the mouth of the Trident. That’s a wide river, I saw sailboats on it at least as far upstream as Lord Harroway’s Town. And we can take the River Road once the sailing grows too hard. That’s a good road, and easy to follow, they say.”

Katara nodded firmly. “This is a good boat, it handles well. We should be able to take it quite far upstream, if the river’s as wide as you say. How far will we need to go?”

“All the way to Riverrun, I think – I don’t really know where my brother is, or his army,” Sansa confessed. “But I know that wherever he is, my mother is too. I think they’re in the Riverlands again, I think so, but if they’re not, my grandfather rules at Riverrun. Or, or if he’s died of his illness at last, it will be my uncle Edmure at Riverrun. My mother’s little brother. He will shelter us, and bring us to my brother. I know it!”

“That sounds like a good plan,” Katara said, nodding. She was silent for a while. Then she pulled on one more rope and the sails came flapping open, white and lovely like bird’s wings. “Your family is at war?”

Tears prickled in Sansa’s eyes. She hadn’t dared speak properly while they were in King’s Landing – even in the godswood, she’d been too afraid to say the truth out loud. But now everything was different.

“Yes,” she said to Katara, looking at her directly in the face. “Joffrey is a bastard, he isn’t the true king. He lied and killed my father when he tried to tell the truth. And he took me prisoner. But my brother Robb raised our banners and went to war. He’s King in the North now, the first King in the North for centuries, and he’s won every battle he’s fought! My place is with him.”

She felt tall and proud, standing with the sea breeze in her face. She was Robb Stark’s sister, and she was coming home.

Katara nodded soberly. “There was a war in my homeland, too. I lost my mother when I was very young, and my father was away fighting for years. It’s terrible, isn’t it? I’ll get you home, Sansa. I promise.”

Sansa smiled again, telling herself it was only the sea wind putting tears in her eyes. “Robb will find you a ship to send you home too, Katara. I swear it. On my honour as a Stark.”

They sailed through the afternoon and into evening, the boat sped unnaturally by Katara’s power, creating a strong current to drive them on. For a few hours there had been ships behind them, following them out of the harbour, but soon Katara’s magic left them far behind.

Part of Sansa had questions, so many of them. Was Katara a witch? She’d heard of water witches, in old Nan’s stories about the powers of the Children that had broken solid land and sent the waters flooding in. She’d heard stories about the Rhoynish of Dorne, too, who it was said brought strange powers to call the water with them from their river home.

But those were only stories, like tales of giants, or the Long Night. Katara’s powers were real.

Part of Sansa was frightened of how real her powers were. But only a small part. Even if Katara had magic – even if Sansa had pulled her out of a tree – she was so warm and friendly, and she was only a girl Sansa’s age or a little older. It was hard to stay afraid of her.

Sansa tried to be polite, and not ask personal questions. She did try. But after they’d finished eating their dinner – sausage and cheese and dates and dry crackerbread, the best meal she’d had since her father died – she couldn’t hold back any longer; the questions all came bursting out.

“How do you do magic? Are you a witch? Is everyone a witch in your country?”

Katara laughed, teeth white in the darkness.

“I don’t know what a witch is! I’m a bender, a waterbender. I guess bending is a kind of magic, but it’s not like spirit powers, or the Avatar. It’s just – using your qi, I guess. And practice. Not everyone can bend, but there’s benders in every part of the world. Haven’t you ever seen anyone bend before?”

Sansa’s voice was solemn. “ _Never_. I’ve never seen anyone who can do what you do.”

“That’s really strange,” Katara said thoughtfully. “You don’t have earthbenders here? Firebenders? Airbenders? _No one_?”

“No,” Sansa said. “All the magic is in stories. No one does real magic here at all.”

They sailed through the night, until the moon set a few hours before sunrise; then they anchored in a tiny hidden cove on the north shore of the harbour and slept. When they woke again, Katara had dark circles under her eyes, but she seemed bright and cheerful enough.

“I can keep going like this for a few more days,” Katara said lightly, when Sansa asked. “You should sleep tonight, if you can, so you can keep watch during the day while I rest. It’s safer that way.”

“I will,” Sansa said, thinking of the Royal Fleet, thinking of pirates. “But can’t I help you?”

“Not unless you can bend! But it’s okay, Sansa. I’ll manage.”

They did manage well enough, in all the days and days of sailing north. They snuck past Dragonstone in the darkest part of the night, as a fog came up over the water – Sansa didn’t know if that was a lucky chance or Katara’s powers again – and around the curve of the land into the deep narrowing bay until at last they could see the mouth of the Trident, far ahead.

It was almost as crowded with ships as the harbour at King’s Landing, despite the war. But as they gradually crept closer, Sansa saw that some of the neat towns lining the shore had patches of burnt-out houses, and there were little camps of refugees here and there among the fields.

Watching it all, Sansa bit her lip.

“I think you should stop bending now,” she said finally. “People will notice if our boat moves faster than the wind. We don’t want to look strange – it would be too hard to run away up the Trident, the river’s too crowded and there are too many people on the shores for that. And people might not recognise this boat, but it’s obviously a lord’s; we should try and seem as if we belong here. There’s spare clothes below deck. If we dress like a lord’s retainers, people won’t think it strange to see a boat like this on the river.”

She half-expected Katara to protest; the spare clothes they’d found were _men’s_ clothes. But Katara said nothing against the plan, just nodded and smiled brightly. So Sansa had no choice but to pull on _breeches._

It was horrible. The cloth was so tight around her legs, Sansa felt naked. She could not stop blushing with shame to think on how she must look. Everyone could see the shape of her legs, as if she was wearing nothing at all!

And the breeches felt awkward, too, pulling strangely around her thighs when she moved. With every step she remembered what she was doing, and thought of her mother, her septa, aghast with shame and horror to see the first-born daughter of the Starks in this garb.

Surely even Arya would have blushed to wear clothes like this…!

And Sansa blushed to see _Katara_ , too. She vaguely remembered that when Katara had first fallen out of the tree, she’d been wearing some kind of loose trousers under her slit skirt, but at least those had been baggy, and she’d worn a proper dress over the top. Strange clothes, but not immodest.

Not like the men’s breeches Katara was wearing now, that clung to every inch of her. Katara wore a overlong shirt and coat to try and hide her hips, but it didn’t always work. On deck, as the boat tipped into the wind and Katara bent and hauled on ropes to change the sails, her shirt would ride up, and Sansa would _see_ how nicely round and curved her body was, just as a woman ought to be.

It made her blush and blush, and sometimes stare too long. Sometimes she wondered if she ought to ask Katara to put on a woman’s dress again. It wasn’t _proper_.

But it was Sansa’s idea, and she knew they both had to do it, really. No one would believe a lord would send two teenage girls to sail his boat.

After the third day on the river, Sansa had almost forgotten her own breeches – though not Katara’s. There were other distractions, though. She’d felt safe out on the open ocean with Katara, but as wide as it was, the Trident was still crowded with boats and barges, and the towns lining both shores always felt too close for her comfort.

The creeping dread was almost like being back in King’s Landing again. Every passing barge could be holding Lannister soldiers – every time they anchored to sleep or buy supplies, the town could be hiding King’s men – nowhere really seemed safe. Sansa tried to tell herself that even if they were attacked, Katara would fight them off like she had Joffrey’s guards in the Red Keep, but it was hard to really believe it.

Still, the work kept her busy. Sailing upstream was much harder than sailing in the ocean, with the river currents against them and the winds rising and dropping with every bend in the river. And Katara didn’t dare use her power too obviously – only at night, when the winds were already in their favour. There was little room to tack when the winds were against them, and sometimes they had nothing to do but anchor in a quiet backwater and wait.

Still, while Sansa’s hands were bruised and torn from the ropes, she was learning. One day, she thought, she might be able to sail a boat alone.

She liked that dream. It would only be a small boat, like this one, but she’d keep it moored at White Harbor to sail up and down the coast. All the way across the Bite to the Vale, maybe; the lands her aunt held in trust for her cousin, where her father had been fostered as a boy. She’d like to see the white cliffs and fast-flowing rivers of the Vale one day.

And she’d be free. If anyone threatened her – she’d just leap in her boat and sail away.

They had to leave the boat behind only a day after they followed the branching of the Red Fork upstream. The banks were still wide, but the river was growing too crowded for tacking; they were both tired of the long nervous waits for the wind to change. 

Sansa feared they’d have to walk all the way to Riverrun, but Katara found them passage in a riverboat hauling bales of Vale-raised mountain wool upstream. She sold the boat quite openly in an inn by the river, earning more than enough coin for passage west. Sansa was terrified the whole time they’d be dragged off for thieves – but of course half the Riverlands had been sacked and sacked again, and every town was awash with looted goods.

Profiting off their theft made Sansa feel sick to her stomach, almost as bad as her grief at leaving the boat behind at all. It was their shelter, their refuge – their freedom – and she loved it so. Still, it had never really been hers.

But hadn’t they taken it from the Buckwells, who were sworn to Joffrey? Ser Bryen Buckwell been in the great hall when Joffrey had her stripped and beaten, after Robb humiliated the Lannisters in battle. Like the rest of them, he’d said nothing against his king. He’d fought for Joffrey at the Blackwater, and not Lord Stannis who ought to have been the rightful king of any Crownlands lord.

Deep down Sansa knew that she didn’t really care that he’d been robbed.

And they’d only stolen from him to survive. So had most of the looters of the Riverlands, she was learning, who were only smallfolk who had lost their crops and homes to war. Was it worse to steal from the dead, or let your children starve?

Her septa and her father would have said it was wrong to steal, always – so should the smallfolk merely lie down and die? Should she and Katara have waited to be captured again and abused in King’s Landing?

Sansa didn’t know.

But she had too much time to think about it. There was little else to do on a river barge. The boat moved forward at a crawl, slower it seemed than a walking man, dragged upstream by teams of sweating lowing oxen. Sansa and Katara both slept most of the first day away, but after that there was little to do but think and talk.

She and Katara weren’t the only ones to have bought a bed on the riverboat. The boat was crowded with more refugees, mostly townsfolk from the prosperous little settlements of the riverlands – the farmers could only afford to walk.

All of them had stories that twisted Sansa’s stomach to hear. There was nothing, nothing she could do. Sansa Stark of Winterfell might have been able to help, but she was only runaway Sam of the river now, and these folk needed far more than the few coins of charity that were all she and Katara could spare.

Most of them spoke well of her uncle Edmure – that at least was good to hear. He’d been one of the few riverlands lords to open his castle gates to the smallfolk, protecting them from raiders, or so the stories went. He was lord of the Trident now; her grandfather Hoster was dead.

 _I’ll be like Edmure_ , Sansa thought. _If I ever get back North – if I’m ever a lady again – I’ll be like my uncle, like a Tully. Duty and honour: and I’ll be kind._

 _Kind like Katara_. Katara was always kind. Katara gave too much coin in charity – took motherless children aside to mend tears in their coats – shared her meal with hungry fellow travellers even when it meant she would not have enough for herself.

_One day we’ll be able to do more for these people. We will._

When one of the bargemen told them all they’d reach Riverrun that afternoon, Sansa almost couldn’t believe it. It seemed as if they’d spent a lifetime on the river, trapped in an eternal humid afternoon, like one of those dreams of walking through endless hallways that never led to the door she was searching for. 

But at last she saw castle walls rising above a fork in the river, just like all her mother’s stories. The barge stopped at the little town in the meadows beyond the castle, and Sansa and Katara stepped out onto solid ground at last.

The town was more like a village, just a handful of houses scattered through the meadow. It took barely any time at all to cross, and before Sansa knew it the castle walls were looming above them.

Her heart was pounding, suddenly, her hands shaking, as if she was back in King’s Landing again. She was as frightened as if Joffrey had suddenly stepped out from behind a tree beside them – why was she so frightened? She was almost with her kin again! She was almost safe!

But then Katara took her hand and squeezed it, hard.

“It will be okay, no matter what happens. I’ll look after you. We’ll be safe.”

Sansa remembered Katara brave and strong in the sunlight of the Red Keep, her water weapons glittering and sparkling in the sun like jewels. She held onto the image like a talisman against her fear.

And finally they were at the castle gates. A pair of bored guards waited by the open gates, dressed in bright Tully red and blue.

Sansa tried to remember all her lessons from her septa – _you’re a fine lady, Sansa, and you’re to be a queen –_ and drew her back straight and proud. In her best lordly manner, she bent her head only a fraction to the guards – a lady’s respect, not the humbleness of one of the smallfolk.

“I am Sansa Stark, Catelyn Tully’s daughter. My friend Lady Katara and I escaped King’s Landing and the false king together, and now I come seeking aid from my kin.”

The guards didn’t really believe Sansa, she could tell, but they took her and Katara inside to meet their captain anyway. And after that it was like another dream. Rooms and guards and guards and rooms, a maze of corridors and red brick and warm panelled wood. Sansa told her story over and over and over again, fighting the tremble in her hands, while Katara stood beside her in silent support.

At last she came to the finest room of all, hung with bright tapestries, with a real glass window looking out over the river.

A tall armoured man stood before them, frowning. He was old; his hair was all white and grey, with no trace of Tully red, but his black scale armour bore the Tully trout badge. It was done in black, though, not silver. Despite his grim expression he had kind eyes, Sansa thought.

“I am Lady Sansa Stark,” she told him, with a bow. “My friend Lady Katara helped me escape King’s Landing, with my father’s sword.”

Finally, reluctantly, she removed Ice from where she’d kept it slung across her shoulders for all these weeks. She’d kept it wrapped in cloth to disguise it, and she was used to the weight, now; she didn’t want to let it go.

But she had to. Carefully, she unwrapped it, until the smoky grey metal was clear.

“That is Ice,” her great-uncle said slowly. But he did not seem happy.

“You must be Ser Brynden Tully, the Blackfish,” she said, with the deepest bow yet. “My great-uncle. My mother often spoke to me of you; you were always kind to her and Lysa and your brother’s ward Petyr, and she loved you well.”

“Did she,” he said, flatly. With a sinking heart Sansa realised he didn’t believe her.

 _I will be brave_ , she told herself, and lifted her chin.

“Yes. You called her little Cat and taught her how to swim. She was the only Cat to like water, that was what you always told her, even when she was older and didn’t think the jape was funny anymore. When she was eight the Trident flooded and she boasted to Lysa that she could swim it anyway, but as soon as she jumped in the water the currents caught her. You jumped in after her, and saved her life.”

Sansa smiled, a tiny twitch of her mouth.

“Mother always told Robb that story when he wanted to do things he wasn’t ready for – change his pony for a proper horse, or his practice sword for live steel. Don’t let your pride run ahead of your skill, she used to say. You don’t have an uncle in Winterfell to get you out of trouble!”

There was a strange expression in her great-uncle’s face. His eyes were bright, too bright.

“You look just like her,” he said, hoarsely. “How did you learn that story, girl? You can’t be Sansa Stark, the lions would never let her go. Nor this sword.”

“My mother told me! And the Lannisters _didn’t_ let me go. Katara knows how to sail, so we stole a boat and ran away. We stole the sword, too.” She hung her head for a moment. “We had to wear boy’s clothes to be safe on the road. I know it’s dreadful, I know mother will be angry, I’m sorry! I was just frightened…”

“Gods above, you should have been frightened! Did you girls really come all the way from King’s Landing?”

Katara stepped forward, gave him one of her brilliant smiles. “Yes. We found a sweet little yacht in the harbour, small enough for two to manage. I’ve been sailing since I was a young girl, and Sansa learns quickly. It was worth the risk – we couldn’t stay in the Red Keep! The false king was too cruel to Sansa.”

The Blackfish shook his head. “Gods. I can’t believe it. But you look so much like her… It’s a pity you’re too late to see my niece.”

“She was here?” Sansa whispered, around the sudden lump in her throat.

Her great-uncle’s eyes were kinder, now. “Aye, for the funeral. You’ll have heard her father, my brother, is dead. My nephew is the lord now.”

Sansa bowed her head. “I heard. I’m sorry, great-uncle. I wish I could have met him.”

“If wishes were horses the smallfolk would ride,” he said harshly. “There’s a lot of things we might wish for. But yes, my niece and her son came here, with his wife. Now they’re on their way back north with my nephew for his wedding.”

Sansa could have cried. To have been so close to her mother, and missed her…

“It’s alright, girl. Armies move slow, and King Stark has thousands of men with him still. I’ll send you and your friend north with an escort. My niece will know the truth of things. Like enough you’ll catch them in time to see my nephew wed.”

They stayed only two nights in Riverrun. Sansa almost begged the Blackfish to send them out again that very day, but then she thought of Katara, travelling halfway across Westeros to help her, and felt ashamed. _She needs to rest_ , Sansa thought. _She deserves a day in comfort._

Katara didn’t want her to tell Ser Brynden the truth about her powers. Sansa was happy enough to keep the secret and let the two of them just be girls together. They bathed away days of dirt, and cleaned and combed their hair until their curls sat neatly, and dressed again in lady’s gowns – Sansa was not sorry to leave the dreadful breeches behind for good.

And at dinner on the second night, even though Ser Brynden still said he didn’t know if he believed her story, he sat her and Katara with honour at the high table. There were lemon cakes, and a harper who sang of Jonquil and her Florian. Sansa could have wept to feel so much a lady again.

On the last morning they woke early and packed their things, almost all gifts from Ser Brynden. Katara had a large waterskin at her side at last, and caressed it happily as they walked towards the gate.

Sansa was in a heavy riding dress – but it was a proper _dress_ , as befit a lady – and there were two lovely palfreys waiting for them, with their escort of ten Tully men to take them north.

Sansa had a sudden thought. “Katara, can you ride astride?” she whispered, low enough not to embarrass her friend. She felt dreadful not to have thought of it before: girls learned to ride astride in the north, for hunting and for the risk of wildling raids. A long fast ride was always more dangerous in a sidesaddle. She’d deliberately asked her great-uncle for men’s saddles, so they could travel north at greater speed and safety. But what if girls didn’t ride like men in Katara’s homeland?

Katara was staring at the horses, a bit wild-eyed. “I’ve never ridden a – a horse, at all! But it’s alright, Sansa. I’ll learn.”

Sansa almost called the whole plan to a halt, in horror. How would they make it to the North, if Katara couldn’t ride at all?

But Sansa hadn’t been able to sail, at first, and Katara had taught her. Maybe now it was her turn to be the patient teacher.

As it happened, Katara learned fast. It was lucky, after all, that Sansa had asked for saddles to ride astride – it was much easier and safer for a beginner – and every morning Sansa made sure that Katara had the horse with the smoothest gait, so there was no risk of her bouncing off if they broke into a sudden trot.

Not that there was much chance of that. Katara was fit and strong, and her balance was perfect. Within a few days she was riding as if she’d done it all her life. She didn’t even seem to get sore – not like Sansa, who hobbled out of the saddle every evening like she’d grown elderly in a day.

The journey couldn’t have been more different from their flight up the Trident. Armed guards – a letter from Ser Brynden seeking shelter and fresh horses from the lords along the way – at night they slept safe behind stone walls, and by day they sped north, pushing the horses since they could claim remounts from their hosts each morning.

They were lucky. Autumn rains had started at last in the Westerlands: the rivers were swelling, and often the rainclouds drifted east to dump their burden on the Riverlands.

It was poor unpleasant riding, with heavy clothes that chafed in the wet and miserably dripping hair. Often the horses rode through mud up to their hocks, sending it splashing up to coat their riders. But at least they slept warm and dry at night.

And at last they came over the crest of a hill one evening to see the plain of Hag’s Mire lit up with lights – campfires.

They’d found the Stark armies at last.

 _Mother_. Sansa’s mother was down there! It was like another dream.

The outriders told them all to wait, told them they’d send for Lady Stark, but Grey Wind found them first. He’d gotten so _big_!

He leapt all over Sansa, licking her face and whining like a puppy. Lady would have been this big, by now – Lady would have been so happy to see him again –

Sansa broke down and cried, weeping into her brother’s wolf. His fur was coarse but clean, and he smelled just like Lady.

Then someone made a hoarse, hurt noise behind them – she turned – and ran into her mother’s arms.

Everything was different now. It was like a dream – like a sweet and happy daydream, the kind she’d used to soothe herself in the Red Keep. But it was real.

Robb was here, a king with a bronze crown – but he wept to see Sansa alive, and spun her round like they were children again. And he wept again over Father’s sword, but that was alright. It felt so right to see it in his hands.

He had a wife, too – a wife! Robb was a married man, and soon to be a faither! – and Sansa was shy with Queen Talisa at first, but she was friendly, and so kind.

Sansa soon learned that Robb’s queen had worked as a travelling healer before she met Robb. Remembering the crippled hungry travellers she’d seen on the banks of the Trident, Sansa begged to learn all Talisa would teach her. She wanted to help people. Her mother frowned at the idea, told her it was dirty dangerous work – but Sansa didn’t care. And her mother wouldn’t tell her no. Not now.

It was sweeter than lemoncakes, to have her mother back again. The first night, they couldn’t stop clinging to each other as they wept. Her mother’s arms were so tight around Sansa they hurt, but Sansa never wanted her to let go.

Later that night, when she finally talked to Katara again, she found her friend’s eyes full of tears.

“I’m happy for you, Sansa. I really am! I just wish…”

Sansa remembered what Katara had told her about her own mother, and hugged her tight.

 _We can be your family now_ , Sansa thought, but she didn’t dare say it. As soon as they were back in Winterfell, they’d start the search for Katara’s homeland – and Sansa would have to say goodbye for good.

But that was months away. And perhaps Katara might stay with them in Winterfell for a time before she left for good?

Sansa still had plenty of time to spend with her friend. It was much slower travelling than on their dash from Riverrun, but if Sansa had felt safe with Katara and ten armed Tully men to protect her, how much safer with a whole army between them and the Lannisters?

Things were not altogether well with the Starks, Catelyn told her cautiously one night. The Karstarks were gone, after some treason committed by their lord, and the Freys were still angry that Robb had spurned their lady to marry Talisa. The Northern army had faced heavy losses in their recent battles, and the loss of Winterfell and the Ironborn invasion was a blow to all. But Sansa looked out at all the bright Northern banners in the morning, and thought of loathsome Joffrey hiding behind the walls of the keep, and wasn’t frightened at all.

 _My brother’s a true king. He’ll take us home soon enough_.

And when they rode to the Twins, Sansa was so proud of her lordly noble brother, seeking forgiveness for his broken promise without losing his honour or his pride. Lord Edmure, too – her kind uncle, doing his duty by his family, as was right.

That night, though Edmure’s wedding feast was bright and cheery enough with music and warm fires, she could only pick at her dinner. Only Grey Wind’s warmth at her feet beneath the table, and Katara’s ever-cheerful presence at her side, kept her from pleading exhaustion and fleeing the hall.

Lord Frey was _horrible_ , the way he leered at her. It was like being back at King’s Landing. And he was only doing it to taunt her brother – to goad him into saying something sharp to his hosts – Robb _couldn’t_ defend her, and Sansa could tell how much it hurt to keep his mouth shut.

All she could do was keep her head down.

At least she had Grey Wind. Robb wanted to leave him outside, _chained_ , to please their hosts – but the thought made Sansa feel sick inside, and he relented when she begged. Robb didn’t seem to want to deny her anything, now.

Grey Wind was restless, tensing and growling. _I hate the Freys too_ , she thought, trying to calm him. _It’s alright. We just have to make it through this night, and then we’ll go home._

Be quiet, be calm. Endure. Sansa was good at that.

Abruptly she came out of her half-daze at a too-familiar run of notes, breaking through the cheerful noise of the feast like cold metal at her neck. All at once she was awake and alert, heart pounding like she was back at King’s Landing.

“That’s the Rains of Castamere,” she said, loudly and clearly. “Why do your musicians insult the King with the Lannisters’ song?”

There was an endless, frozen silence at the high table, though the noise of the feast and the music continued around them unchanged. Then Sansa turned and saw her mother frowning, staring at Lord Bolton on her left.

“Armour at a feast,” she breathed. Maybe only Sansa heard it.

Then Katara leapt to her feet and screamed.

“Archers!”

Sansa was cold. Cold to the pit of her stomach. She could see the archers herself now, revealing themselves in the gallery above as they took aim at her kin, but it was if she moved through honey, slowly, far too slow.

Katara yelled again, arms above her head – making herself a target, she had to get _down_ –

Shutters smashed open all around them as the river burst in.

Sansa clung desperately to the heavy table to keep her feet. Murky river water swirled through the room, mixed with ale and wine from the feast – barrels were bursting at the back of the room as Katara drew on their water. It was only knee deep, but the water formed itself into waves and waterspouts, long arms like a kraken reaching to the galleries to pull the archers down. More water rose up in a frozen wave before Katara.

 _A shield_ , Sansa thought frantically. _Katara will be alright. She will survive this, she must –_

The room was all chaos, men and women screaming. The Greatjon was on his feet, bellowing as he attacked Lord Bolton, but he was armed only with a table knife, and Lord Bolton was wearing mail beneath his coat.

Sansa heard a cry behind her and saw Queen Talisa on the floor, where she’d slipped when the water came. She ran over to help her – and saw the man with a knife coming up behind the queen. She screamed in horror and fear, knowing that no one would hear her screams over the crowd – only then Grey Wind was there, leaping as if he flew, to bury his teeth in the man’s throat.

Soon Grey Wind’s jaws were red and dripping, like a nightmare creature, but Sansa and Talisa clung to him all the same.

Sansa’s mother stumbled out of the chaos to find them, and then they were three – three weaponless women and a wolf in a feasting hall become a battlefield. Sansa could have wept, but instead she merely clung to her mother’s hand and looked for Katara and Robb.

Robb had a sword now, Sansa saw dizzily. He must have taken it from one of the armed men who fell with the wave. Robb stood now at the other side of the room in the middle of a little knot of loyal men, fighting unarmoured and desperate to protect their king – and Katara. Katara was there with them too.

Katara didn’t need any weapons. She made her own. She flung ice at their enemies, long spikes speeding out of her hands like frozen darts and javelins. Whips of water sent armoured men flying, and froze them to the floor where they fell. She looked deadly and assured, like a warrior, as fierce as Robb beside her – Sansa’s kind and cheerful friend.

Sansa stood as frozen as if Katara’s powers had taken her, too. But then Robb turned a little and caught sight of the three of them, huddled with their monstrous guard.

“Get to the camps!” he yelled, voice battle-loud across the room. “Seek aid from our loyal men – warn them – ”

Catelyn would have stayed with her son, but Sansa and Talisa dragged her away. They ran through the narrow reeking passage towards the great door they’d entered by, Grey Wind leading the way. There were men there waiting, armoured guards to stop people getting _out_ of the keep, not in, but none of them could stand against Grey Wind.

And then they were in the open air at last, looking out at the open meadows where their men were camped. All seemed well, the sound of cheery drunken laughter rising from the closest camps – but further away, between the Twins and the only proper road away, the camps were quieter.

 _Lord Bolton’s men camp there_ , Sansa thought, despairing. They’ll pin our men between the castle walls and the river.

“Starks! Treachery! Starks, to arms!” Sansa never knew her mother could shout so loud. “Starks!”

She and Talisa shouted with her mother, shouted with all their breath as they ran towards the Winterfell men.

It seemed at first, nightmarishly, as if no one had heard them, but finally men came running from the nearest camp.

“Treachery!” Sansa’s mother shouted again, voice growing hoarse. “Freys and Bolton men attacked the king. Vile treachery!”

Horns were blowing now, in warning. Stark horns. All around them men were stumbling to pull on armour and find their weapons – but most were drunk, Sansa realised, in horror. Drunk and vulnerable.

A group of Winterfell men made a little huddle around Sansa and her mother and goodsister, and walked them slowly back into a protective square of wagons.

“We’ll keep you safe, my ladies,” a man said reassuringly – Red Jon, he was. One of her father’s men from Winterfell.

“The King is still trapped back inside,” Talisa said; there were tears running down her face. “What of him? Who will keep my husband safe?”

Stark and Tully men were running inside now. But there were new horns blowing – the crash of metal from the other side of the camp – the Bolton men and their allies had attacked at last.

Shivering, Sansa ducked down behind the wagons with her mother and goodsister, waiting. A battle was no place for any of them, but there was nowhere to run. They were trapped here, helpless; only able to watch.

Absurdly, a peasant wagon was caught on the edge of the Stark lines, fighting to turn around and get out of the battle breaking out around it. The driver managed it at last and sped up, almost free. The boy behind him had his head bent low, but the driver had his head up, looking around him for a way out – and the torchlight caught on his face, on his scars. Sansa knew him.

“Sandor!” she yelled, barely believing – but she knew him. She wasn’t even sure why she was trying to call to him; the Hound had almost been kind, at times, but why would he help her now? After she’d rejected his offer to help her flee King’s Landing? Still, she could not help herself.

“Sandor, _please!_ ”

And he heard her. He looked up again and looked at her full in the face; turned to look at the boy behind him. Then the boy looked up himself and there was something – something about his face –

Mother made a low disbelieving noise beside her.

The Hound stopped the wagon. They both got off it, the Hound and the boy, and ran towards her.

“You need a sword, little bird,” he told her, almost smiling, as he unsheathed his. But Sansa wasn’t looking at him. Because the boy – the boy had stopped dead in front of her and Mother, staring –

“ _Arya,_ ” Mother said, in a choking sob. “My little girl.”

And Sansa recognised her sister at last.

If the Stark men had been caught unawares as the Freys and Boltons had planned, drunk and weaponless in the meadows, most likely would have died. As it was, they’d only had a short warning from Sansa and her family – but that short warning was just enough to save them.

Sansa sent Grey Wind out to help their soldiers, after Sandor had arrived to protect them, and that made a difference too. Men who would stand firm and fast against men armed with swords often fled a giant snarling wolf – particularly at night.

Even so, Sansa had her first real practice at a healer’s work that night. Down on her knees in the mud and muck with her goodsister, working to stop her family’s loyal men from bleeding to death in her service.

The hours passed towards dawn. The night grew colder, and the moon set; the loyal Stark men and their allies had control of the meadowlands at last. A few more handfuls of Stark men pushed their way into the castle. But still no one came out of the Twins.

 _Robb_ , Sansa thought dully. _Katara_.

_Father. Rickon. Bran. Lady. Septa Mordane. Jory Cassel. Jeyne Poole._

They had Arya back, now, after they’d all thought her dead. Was this the price?

But finally, just as the first lightness was appearing in the eastern sky, there was movement at the door to the Twins at last. A little group of people, moving –

Queen Talisa gasped and said something aloud in her own language, crying.

Robb was walking in the lead of that group, limping a little and streaked with blood, but mostly unharmed.

And next to him was – Katara. Her hair had come down and was all in tangles around her face, and there was a great rip across the shoulder of her borrowed gown, but she had no wounds that Sansa could see.

_She was alive. She was alive. She saved us all, and she’s alive –_

Arya and Talisa and Sansa’s mother all ran together to Robb, but Sansa had eyes only for her friend.

She flung herself into Katara’s arms and clung to her, weeping. The other girl was soaked through with muddy river water, and worse things, but it could have been fine perfume for all Sansa cared. Katara was warm and lovely and alive in her arms. Nothing else mattered.

Sansa pulled away from her only when Robb tugged at her for his own desperate hug. He squeezed Sansa too tightly, but she didn’t care.

As they pulled apart, Sansa got a good look at the men who’d made it out with Robb and Katara. Most of the lords who’d dressed in their finery for the wedding were there – the Greatjon, Dacey Mormont, Lucas Blackwood, even Uncle Edmure and his pale Frey bride – but not all.

They had hostages with them, at least. A pair of terrified Frey men.

“Walder Frey is dead,” Robb said hoarsely, as if he’d spent the night shouting – no doubt he had. “So is Roose Bolton. Frey men tried to take Lord Tully hostage – tore him from his wedding bed – but they failed.”

He shivered all over, suddenly, like a flybit horse.

Then he dropped down on his knees in front of Sansa – no, in front of _Katara_.

“Lady Katara,” he said hoarsely. “I do not know what magic you used, and I do not care. You saved us all. You saved my sister twice. Ask a boon of me – any boon – and I will grant it.”

Katara looked down at him. Her eyes were wide; she looked uncertain, and younger than Arya.

“I don’t – all I want is to go home,” she said at last, in a small voice. “I don’t know if you can help me.”

Robb nodded his head once, and got to his feet again.

“We will find a way. And until then, you will be as my own sister, living in honour with us at Winterfell.”

Silently, Sansa stepped close to Katara, and took her hand.

Everyone went away after that. There was a great bustle and noise as the camp was broken down; as tired as everyone was, no one would rest easily until they were at least a day’s march away from the Twins. Robb disappeared with a large group of lords; Catelyn led Talisa away to find somewhere to lie down and rest, for the sake of the child she was carrying. Arya stuck to their mother’s side as if she’d been glued there.

Sansa and Katara rested together with their backs against a wagon, waiting for someone to tell them where to go. They were still holding hands.

“I’ll keep watch if you want to sleep for a bit,” Sansa said at last, into Katara’s shoulder. “You must be more tired than I am.”

She felt it, more than saw, as Katara shook her head.

“I can’t,” she confessed. “Not after a fight like that. My heart’s still racing. But I’ll sleep like the dead tonight.”

“You’ve fought like that before,” Sansa said slowly. “Like my brother. You’re a warrior.”

“Yes,” Katara answered. “But it’s not the same. Mostly I fought other benders. Not… not men with swords. It’s different. There was so much blood...”

Silently, Sansa stroked her hand.

“I couldn’t fight like you do," Sansa told her. "Is it selfish that I’m glad you can?”

Katara tilted her head until it rested on Sansa’s shoulder. She sighed; Sansa felt her breath stir her hair.

“I wanted this. I had to fight before the men would teach me. They said women were only supposed to heal. It’s stupid – why can’t I do both?”

“You sound like my sister,” Sansa said, smiling. The comparison made her happy, this time, not sad. Her sister still lived - it was like a gift from the gods.

Mother was alive. And Robb, and Talisa, and the baby… Uncle Edmure… Great-Uncle Brynden… _Katara._

She’d lost too many people, they all had. But she still had a family. She was still alive.

And they were all going home together.

Driven by some impulse she barely understood, Sansa leaned in and kissed Katara quickly on the mouth.

She drew back just as quickly, embarrassed, but Katara didn’t seem angry. She was blushing, faintly pink on her cheeks, and she was smiling.

“I know you’ll have to leave eventually,” Sansa said to her, breathless. “But I’m glad you’re still here. I’m glad!”

“So am I,” Katara said, still smiling.

The second time, it was Katara who leaned in for the kiss.


End file.
